I’m starting a karaoke class on Friday. It runs for two Fridays in a row. The instructor sent us an email and told us to practice beforehand because we’ll be singing on that first day. I’ve been practicing all my life. I sing in the car and around the house every day. I’m pretty good when I’m alone. The big test will be what others think.
I’ve sung in public twice in my life. A couple decades ago, I sang Kenny Rogers’ The Gambler. We were in Vegas and BZ signed me up. She and Mike’s then girlfriend, Sarah, sang backup. When Sutton was on his eighteen-month tour around the country in 2018 and 19, I sang King of the Road with him. I received a few compliments both times, but I think it was more about people’s politeness than my singing ability.
I’ve been singing in the kitchen for the past couple of months. I have an Echo and I call out songs for me to sing along. I’m trying out a series of love songs. I’m doing my best to avoid songs with high notes because I can’t hit em. I’ve got a narrow range. It’s easier for me to go low than high.
I’ve been singing during my dance classes too. When I get caught up in the song, I screw up the steps. It’s a constant battle. My voice always defeats my feet.
Most of the songs that I’ve been practicing are love songs. I can handle some of Elvis’s work, several of Sinatra’s, and I’ve dabbled a bit with Rod Stewart and Nat King Cole. I don’t have Stewart’s raspy voice or Nat’s mellow tones, but I can match their intent. I think that’s my strong suit. I mean the words when I sing them. I’m just a romantic at heart.
When I was younger, I considered myself a “crooner”. If you’re not familiar with the term, Google says “a crooner is typically a male singer known for performing sentimental, romantic songs in a soft, smooth, intimate voice.” That’s me, or at least how I look at myself.
Some singers earn the label “crooner” for the way they sing, not just their song choices. The term carries a distinct musical history and style. Back in the day, Frank Sinatra, Dean Martin, Nat King Cole, Perry Como, and Tony Bennett topped the list. While not classic crooners, Michael Bublé, Harry Connick Jr., Josh Groban, and John Legend come pretty close when you listen to today’s music.
I’m not sure how class is gonna go, but I’m determined to give it a shot. I’ve never been the best singer in the room, but I’ve never been the worst either. I think I inherited singing from my dad. He’d sing to my mom after dinner. He wasn’t shy. He had a rich tone, but most of all, he had fun. That’s what I’m looking for. Fun.
His go toos were Has Anybody Seen My Gal and Darktown Strutters Ball, only he sang the words “downtown strutters ball“. While it was never his intent, he may have been the world’s first politically correct singer by singing about strutters rather than members of the “darktown” community.
And for Mom he’d sing out:
“Five foot two, eyes of blue, oh, what those five feet could do: has anybody seen my gal?
Turned-up nose, turned-down hose Never had no other beaus. Has anybody seen my gal?
Well, if you run into a five-foot-two covered with pearls, diamond rings, all those things, bet your life it isn’t her, but could she love, could she coo! Cootchie-cootchie-cootchie coo! Has anybody seen my gal.”
Dad would sing, and Mom would smile. I miss both. We had a vocalist sing the two songs at Mom’s funeral. Dad would have loved it.
When I perform on Friday, I’ll do my best to honor him. I’ll probably be singing love songs instead of the playful tunes he preferred. I’ll have some of the girls I’ve known throughout my life in my thoughts as I sing, including at least two from Clara Barton Junior High.
I know I won’t be the best, but I won’t be the worst either. If our leader asks for volunteers, I’ll raise my hand early so I can go first, get it over with, and be done. I don’t want to follow the top singers. I’m fine fading into the background. And if, by some chance, I do end up being the best, it probably means there are quite a few tone-deaf wannabes in the group.
Bob,
First of all, I like the vulnerability of your writing. You self-disclose in detail about your passion for singing along with your anxiety about performances in front of strangers. You also tie this disclosure to your father’s similar passion for romantic “crooners” and his relationship with your mother.
Break a leg, Bob!